Escaping Reality
by Shadowed Night Sky
Summary: Gaara used to create characters with the sand. He would pretend that he was someone else. Someone different. To him, it was a comfort. It was an escape. Sand Sib Bonding


_Disclaimer - I do not own Naruto, or Gaara, or any of the three Sand Siblings. Actually, I don't own any of the characters! It all belongs to Masashi Kishimoto._

_AN: This is my first Sand Sibs story. The Sand Siblings are my favorite characters (especially Gaara!!) and I'm actually quite proud of this story. This is pure brother/sister bonding. _=)_  
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**Escaping Reality**

**Gaara used to create characters with the sand. He would pretend that he was someone else. Someone different. To him, it was a comfort. It was an escape. **

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It was night time in the desert. The air was cold and biting, while the soft breeze blew sand gently through the shadowed streets. The stars were barely visible in the sky, and the small sliver of the moon gave almost no light to the occupants of the city below.

Laughter and noise could be heard distinctly from one building, where the people inside watched with great entertainment a play, performed by a small acting troupe that just celebrated its ten year anniversary. The place was crowded, packed to the brim, with many people turned away at the door from lack of seats.

Through one small window, located at the very side of the building, two small aquamarine eyes, framed by kohl black, peered through, striving to catch a glimpse of the play. The owner of the eyes crouched on a small ridge that stuck out of the building, staying surprisingly still in the uncomfortable, cramped position.

It was a small boy, maybe six or seven years old. He had red hair, though it looked brown in the darkness of the night. A red kanji stood out on his forehead, glaringly obvious with the contrast against his pale skin. It looked disturbingly like a scar rather then a tattoo. His small hand was resting on the window.

The sand rustled beneath him, appearing to the guard the boy in case he should fall from his precarious position.

He was watching the play with avid eyes, completely focused on the drama spread out before him. It was the story of a family, the parents and younger children kidnapped, the two eldest children, a boy and girl, journeying through perils and dangers on a quest to rescue their loved ones.

The small boy's attention did not waver from the scene in front of him. He remained still and emotionless as the girl screamed as she was attacked by bandits. He did not move as a handsome young man swooped in to save her. He did not flinch when a man was killed. He did not look away as the elder brother passionately kissed a princess. He did not smile as the family was reunited at the end.

He merely watched in silence as the audience flew to its feet, roaring in appreciation, giving the actors a standing ovation and calling out, "Bravo! Encore! Bravo!"

He released the window pane, and jumped off the ridge, the sand surrounding him so he landed with a soft thump, not at all jarred by the impact. He walked through the empty streets, leaving quickly so as to avoid the chattering crowd.

He eventually ended up in the outskirts of the city, and took a familiar place atop a sand dune, looking out over the desert from his position. He thought about the play and mulled over its meaning.

This was a routine that had started when he was only three.

His uncle Yashamaru frequently attended plays, and would not let Gaara view them.

Little Gaara had followed stubbornly and watched the entire comedy from a small window.

Later, knowing he couldn't ask Yashamaru what the play was about - not being able to understand it with his juvenile mind - he left, and ended up in a spot that he often went to when he wanted to cry or be alone.

The next time a play was showing, curiosity defeated Gaara's love of his uncle, and against his wishes, he went to observe the play. He left confused, and debated over the play's meaning in the midst of the sand dunes.

It was a routine that never changed, not even after Yashamaru's death.

If anything, the plays were a comfort. A pastime that Gaara could enjoy without anyone knowing.

When he watched the plays, he was transported to another world. Sometimes, after seeing them, he would come to his spot and pretend to be his favorite character, acting out the part. He would create the other characters with his sand, and would voice their lines just as enthusiastically as his own. After a time, he began making up his own characters, his own worlds, playing and creating people from his own imagination. He would design their faces with sand, and would sometimes copy it down on paper, carefully drawing the lines and smiling in satisfaction as his character was created.

To Gaara, it wasn't about having fun. It was about release. It was about being himself, and creating people who he could shape however he wanted. It was about leaving the hellish world he lived in, escaping from his own life and his own existence, pretending to be something different. Gaara could never get enough of the addictive feeling of not being himself. Being someone different, even if just for an hour, was an escape that he was certain he could not have survived without.

It helped him build the mask he used his whole life.

It taught him about the world's fickleness.

It showed him things he never would have experienced.

It kept him from going insane.

Even when Yashamaru died.

Just a week before his uncle's betrayal, Gaara watched a play where the hero was betrayed by his closest friend, someone like a brother to him. Gaara had felt angry at the friend, and watched the hero with sorrowful eyes as he dealt with the pain of losing one so close. The traitor eventually wound up dead, betrayed by his own master. The hero had stood over his body, proclaiming that he wished circumstances had been different, and that they could have remained as brothers. He gave the traitor a proper funeral, and mourned his death.

That night, Gaara did not move even after the sun had risen, debating over the feelings of the hero, trying to figure out why he forgave the traitor, and why he still loved him, grieved for him.

When Yashamaru tried to kill him, he thought he understood.

He loved Yashamaru. Even when the kunai came whirring though the air, meeting with the sand shield, he loved him. Even when the sand wrapped itself around Yashamaru, squeezing, he loved him. Even when Yashamaru lay gasping, dying, telling Gaara that no one had ever cared for him, not him, not his mother, not his father, not his brother, not his sister...Gaara loved him. Even when he threw up, screamed, cried, raved, even as he began to lose his mind, falling into insanity, even as he went on a rampage, killing, murdering, even as the sand dug into his skin, carving out the kanji meaning love, even as he swore that he would exist, loving only himself...he loved Yashamaru. He hated him, and yet he loved him.

It wasn't until six months later that Gaara returned to the theater to watch another play. It was a comedy. Gaara left halfway through.

He went to his sand dune, and created three of his favorite characters. One of them was a young girl named Saaya. Gaara made her ten years old. He always had her play his sister in his dramas. He gave her red hair, but instead of blood red, it was more copper. Sometimes, she played the heroine, daring and volatile, risking everything and succeeding in the end.

Another was Niito, who was shaped to look nine years old. He had light brown hair, nearing a dirty blond. He was quiet, but always spoke up when he didn't like something. Gaara usually made him the sidekick. Other times he played Gaara's brother. Gaara's character usually argued with his.

The last was the strangest character of all. Gaara never really gave it a gender, not certain if the character he created was male or female, or even worthy of being either. The character was the tallest, and the oldest. The character's skin matched the sand's color. It had long hair that reached mid-back. It was a sandy color, but had black streaks in it, highlighting the hair. It had blue tattoos all over its skin. Its eyes were the most curious of all, a gold color, sometimes turning deadly black. Gaara usually switched this character around; sometimes it was the enemy and the bad guy, other times it was Gaara's hero. Gaara made it his mother once. Eventually, he realized what he had created, and named it Shukaku.

The voice in his head was rather pleased.

Even as Gaara grew older, and descended further into insanity, he still found time to watch his plays and escape to the sand dunes. He dropped many of his characters, and created new ones to replace them. He always kept the favorites, Saaya, Niito, and Shukaku.

It was a release. An escape. An addiction.

When Gaara was twelve years old, he returned to the sand dunes in a state of turmoil. He unconsciously created a character that he struck at again and again and again. He screamed and raved, a sand storm whirling around him, affecting even the Hidden Village a couple of miles away. At last he dropped exhausted onto the ground, and looked at the character he had utterly beaten. It had blond hair and blue eyes.

It resembled the Jinchuriki.

_Kyuubi_, Shukaku had whispered gleefully in his head. _You just met the host of Kyuubi_.

Gaara's entire world had just been shattered by a blond-haired, blue-eyed, loud-mouthed, weak-looking, hyper-active Jinchuriki.

He spent an entire week at the sand dunes, immersing himself in a world that he had created years ago, after his uncle's betrayal. It had been pushed into the recesses of his mind, but now he was ready to confront the buried emotions.

He spent a night sobbing, tears escaping him for the first time in six years. Shukaku had been oddly silent during this period, only refusing to use the sand to create a character that greatly looked like Gaara's deceased uncle.

Gaara spent the week reevaluating the meaning of life and his very existence.

The last world he created was different then any other.

For the first time, Gaara played the hero. For the first time, Saaya gave him a hug. For the first time, Niito grinned at him. For the first time, Shukaku did not make an appearance in his play.

When Gaara returned to his house, he stopped, feeling a worried stare, and turned to find his brother and sister sitting at the table, both of their faces turned to his, their eyes focused directly on him.

"Gaara?" said Temari quietly. "Where..." she hesitated, obviously not certain of his state of mind.

"Are you okay?" asked Kankuro, eying his brother apprehensively.

Normally Gaara would ignore them and walk up the stairs, or glare at them and threaten to kill them with his sand. "I will be," he said instead. As he turned, he caught sight of their surprised looks. He expected it. He was surprised with himself.

Gaara went to see a play a week later. The ridge was much smaller, and now he could no longer balance on it. The sand held him up. He watched with unwavering eyes and a silent stare. It was the story of a troubled boy who grew up to be a hero.

When Gaara went to the sand dunes, he stayed two weeks.

He would have stayed longer, but Temari and Kankuro stumbled upon him, breaking his time short.

"Gaara?" called Temari, approaching him cautiously.

"Gaara? Have you been here this whole time?" questioned Kankuro.

Gaara quickly broke down the images of his characters, returning them to his swirling sand. "What are you doing here?" he said, not looking at them.

"We were worried about you," said Temari. "You've been gone two weeks."

"I'm fine."

Temari sent Kankuro an imploring look, which he returned, silently asking, _What am I supposed to do_?

Slowly, carefully, Temari approached Gaara, acting as though she was trying to tame a wild animal. "Gaara," she said softly. "You should come back with us. Please come back home." She was right beside him. She reached out her hand as though to touch his shoulder, but hesitated, wavering between withdrawing it and completing the action.

"Why?" Gaara's question was genuine. Even Kankuro could hear the honest curiosity as to why they thought Gaara should return.

"Because," Temari whispered gently. "You're our brother. We need you."

And then she reached both arms out and enveloped him in a hug, the first one in six years.

Gaara returned home that night. He walked beside his siblings, entering Suna once again. They entered their house, and he walked into his bedroom, and shut the door. He spent the night staring at the wall, the sand shifting restlessly around him.

He didn't leave his room.

The next night, he slipped quietly down the hall and knocked on his sister's door. Temari opened it, wide awake and alert as she looked at him with a slightly alarmed look in her eye. "Gaara?" she said. "Is something wrong?"

Gaara did not reply at first.

He thought of his character Saaya, a beautiful young girl with red hair, and brown eyes. She was brave, strong, annoying, loving, comforting, reckless, short-tempered, and perfect. He had considered her his sister.

"Can I stay in here tonight?" he asked, so quietly that even with her trained ears Temari nearly missed it.

She stared, shocked. Her little brother was not looking at her, his eyes were downcast, trained on the ground. A year ago if he had asked this, she would have said yes out of fear.

"Of course," she said. He was her little brother. And when he raised his aquamarine eyes to meet her green ones, she saw the fear, the pain, the loneliness, the confusion, and the _need_ that she had never imagined he ever felt. And Temari wished that she could wash all that away.

As Gaara entered the room, Temari gestured to the bed. "I know you don't sleep, but it's more comfortable to lie down then sit against the wall," she said.

Gaara spent the night staring at the ceiling and listening to his sister's even breathing, feeling her hand rest gently on his arm, an unconscious action made in slumber.

He returned the next night, and the next. It became a routine. Whenever Gaara felt alone, he would knock on his sister's door and she would answer. He would enter and spend the night listening to her heartbeat as he lay against her chest. It was an escape to Gaara. A comfort. The warm feeling of protectiveness and love that emanated from Temari was almost an addiction. And Kankuro was always there to offer a shoulder, or a hand, or a few words of brotherly advice.

It was a routine.

It was a comfort.

It was an escape.

It was an addiction.

Gaara never returned to the sand dunes after that first night. He never again created the characters that had haunted his childhood. He never again wove the sand into the faces of Saaya and Niito.

After all, he had his real brother and sister now. This wasn't a play. It wasn't an act. It wasn't a script. It wasn't a dream.

It was reality. It was his world. It was his life. It was his existence.

And for the first time, he felt happy.

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_Like I said at the beginning, this is a one-shot that I'm very proud of. It actually started with a failed story that I tried to write about Gaara, that I developed into this. I sat down and wrote it in about an hour. When I was younger, I used to play games where I would be all the characters at once, and I loved imagining that I was someone different and got to do amazing things. So I thought about how Gaara would've wanted an escape and voila! this one shot appeared. _

_Please review and tell me your thoughts on it!  
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